


Overture

by little_calico



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-13
Updated: 2016-07-31
Packaged: 2018-07-23 17:12:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7472277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/little_calico/pseuds/little_calico
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Q was sent by M to intercept a wounded 007 on cold Manhattan night.  What followed was both mystifying and upsetting for the both of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for editing, Mycean. ;d And putting up with my random flights of fancy.
> 
> To M., happy late BD. Here's your 00Q.

  His vision blurred.  He steadied himself against the wall and waited a few moments for the pain in his left shoulder to subside.  The bullet had gone through the fleshy part where his neck and shoulder joined, just inches above his clavicle.  His left arm, down to his fingertips, was numb.                                                 

            The November rain in Manhattan was unkind.  The hard, icy drops were like little needles being driven through his clothes and into his skin.  He shivered from the cold and the fever that had started to burn within him half an hour ago.    

            The few people who passed him said nothing, only offering half-veiled stares as they walked on.  Most of the blood had been washed from his linen coat by the rain, but a crimson blotch where he'd been shot remained.  It made people walk past him faster and avert their eyes.  They would have run if they had noticed the gun he still clung to by instinct – the clip long emptied.

            Then he heard him, walking the way a hunter walks when he approaches his prey to claim it -- the thick heels of his boots sounding on the pavement, making sure his approach was heard.

            "Who knew someday I would be saving the life of a Double-0?"

            Bond glanced up and shuddered.  For a moment, he couldn’t see the figure standing before him, yet he was familiar -- the way his slim silhouette stood an arm’s length away in a long coat, his umbrella leaning against one shoulder.   

            "Who are you --?" 

            "How much blood _have_ you lost?" the figure asked, taking a step closer. 

            There was a brief moment of silence as Bond slowly came to recognize the man standing before him.  He couldn’t help but laugh, and let the gun he had hidden in his pocket fall out and clatter to the ground.  There were audible gasps from the few bystanders, but they quickly scurried away.

            "Losing your touch, as it were," the man said, crouching down to pick up the gun and put it back into Bond’s pocket.  "Failed to complete the mission, got shot, and now, standing in the middle of nowhere with nothing.  Not even a single bullet left in your gun."

            "You've come all this way to fire me?" Bond asked, laughter bubbling up as he spoke.  "Q?"

            The street lamps, and the faraway, colorful lights of New York City, blurred in the falling rain, framing Q’s figure.  He was wearing a long black coat, sleeves already damp.  Underneath the umbrella, Bond could only see a glint of his glasses. 

            "Unfortunately, I do not possess that particular authority," he said, a corner of his mouth curving up as he stepped in closer.  “But the man who does has asked me to fetch you.” 

            "Fetch me?" Bond asked.  He struggled to pull himself upright.  "There are a lot of angry people armed with guns after me."

            "Yes, I know.  Clumsy of you to be tracked so easily."

            In the midst of the steady fall of rain, there was suddenly the distinct sound of speeding cars racing in their direction.  Q pulled a small keyless car remote attached to a round pendant with a picture of a panda on it out of his pocket and pressed it into Bond’s hand.

            “It’s borrowed,” Q said, leaning in to speak into Bond’s ear.  “Please don’t treat it as you would a piece of my equipment and wreck it.”

            “You need to leave,” Bond said, his eyes scanning back and forth behind Q.  The cars sounded closer.

            “I think _you_ do,” Q said, nodding at the narrow opening of a darkened alleyway a few feet to the right of where they stood.  “Go through there.  A red Porsche is parked at the end of it.”

            “Then both of us should –“

            Q shook his head.  "Don't question me," he said.  "They know what you look like; they don't know who I am.  Get the hell out of here before you compromise me, too."

            "Are you mad -- ?" Bond grabbed Q by his wrist; in spite of his injury, his grip was hard. "We're going together --"

            Q shook him off. "Go to the address called 'X' I’ve programmed into the GPS.  I need to remain here to make sure they lose your trail.  I'll see you in a few hours."

            "Q -- "

            He had already turned away from him, one hand shoved into a pocket of his long coat, as he walked in the direction of three black cars speeding toward them.

            "Damn it-- " Bond whispered, as he retreated into the shadows.  He watched Q's silhouette sharply outlined by the bright headlights for as long as he could, until the cars came closer and they lit up the alley.  He ran.  He ran as fast as he could, dodging the bags and boxes of rubbish that were strewn through the narrow, blackened corridor.  He ran until he caught a glimpse of the red Porsche, standing out against the rusty trash bin it was parked next to.

            "Q, you little shit," Bond said under his breath as his cold fingers pressed at all of the buttons on the remote until he heard the doors unlock.  "You’d better live."

    

            The address that appeared on the GPS screen was on the Upper East Side.  After he looped through random streets to make sure he wasn't followed, enduring the constant protest of the GPS vocal navigation, he ended up at the _Surrey_. 

            The valet who opened the car door for him was startled as Bond stepped out, soaked, but only said, "Welcome."  The black leather interior of the Porsche was equally soaked with rain, mixed with the coppery scent of his blood.  

            "I'll clean this up for you, Sir," the valet said, steeling his professional veneer as he held his hand out for the car remote.

            "Bill it to -- " Bond started, and realized he didn’t know.  He didn’t know where in the hotel he was supposed to go, or even what room Q was registered in.  He didn’t even know Q’s name.

            “No trouble, Sir,” the valet said – seeing confusion crease Bond’s face.  “We will take care of it.  The front desk will have your room key.”

            Bond only gave him a nod as he put the keyless remote into the valet’s gloved, outstretched hand. 

            He received similar surprised looks from a few guests as he walked into the hotel lobby, dripping a trail of pinkish water as he walked toward the front desk.  A middle-aged man in a dark jacket, his name on a gold name tag pinned over his left lapel, made eye contact with him.  His expression barely wavered as he picked up a small white envelope from beneath the desk and held it up, waiting for Bond to take it.  The sealed envelope had “932” written on it in black ink.

            “Elevator is to the right, end of the hall,” the man said in an even tone.  “Please do call us if you require anything.”

            The casualness of it all was uncomfortable.  He might have cared more if the cold and the pain hadn't started to set in, as the adrenaline slowly drained from his system.  He mouthed "Thanks," and tried not to let it be obvious that his footing wasn’t entirely certain as he made his way toward the silver placard marked “ELEVATOR”.

            It wasn't until the lift doors closed, he'd pressed the number "9" and felt the carriage move, that he allowed himself to slump against the mirrored wall.  It was as if all of his strength had left him in one moment.  He would have let his legs crumple until he sat down on the floor – but he knew he probably wouldn’t be able to stand back up again.  The thought came then of what he would have to do to find Q, and it tired him even more. 

            When the lift came to a smooth stop and let him out, he tore open the envelope.  It was a slim keycard with the hotel logo stamped in one side, and a magnetic strip on the other. 

            As he slipped the card key into the door, he thought he would just collapse on the floor as soon as the door closed behind him.  He’d make plans while he lay on the carpet.  Although he wasn’t completely conscious of the already-lit room as he entered it, his hand automatically went for the empty gun in his pocket.

            "At least you didn't come straight here," Q said.  He was sitting in an arm chair by the window.  His damp coat was hung up on a wood hanger in the walk-in closet.

            “How did you get here before I did?”

            “I stayed there long enough to watch them leave.  Walked half a block and got into a cab.  I assumed you were disobeying the navigation instructions for a while before you came to the hotel.”

            “Yeah,” Bond said, as he placed his gun on the dresser and walked into the bathroom to undress. "Sorry about the interior of your car."

            "Explain it to the ambassador; it's his car."

            "Bloody hell -- " 

            Bond stripped off his wet clothing, dropping it into a pile under the sink.  He looked at the wound on his shoulder - clean through, from looks of it.  He wouldn't have to dig out the bullet.

            "Can you order some food? And maybe a med kit? ” he asked, and turned on the shower.  After a moment’s thought, he added, "And some good Scotch."

            Q didn't answer him.  At least, he couldn't hear him if he had, above the hissing sound of the water pulsating from the shower head.  He didn't care.  He just wanted to be warm and to lie down.  His head was spinning from sheer exhaustion.  Although it wasn’t an unfamiliar sensation, it was something he never got used to.

            He stood under the steady jet of hot water, letting it soak through him and worm its way into his bones.  He thought he might've been lulled to sleep in there, if the pulsating pain radiating from his wound weren't so insistent.  He finally turned off the water and got out when the wound went numb.  He would need to bandage it soon.  He wrapped a towel around his waist and walked out - feeling more tired than when he had first entered the bath.

            "You look like shit," Q said.  He was still sitting by the window, but he'd ordered a meal. A metal cart that had a silver dome covering a plate of food was parked next to a standing lamp. A small white box with a red cross symbol on the corner sat on the bottom shelf of the cart.  There wasn’t any Scotch that he could see.   

            "I feel as good as I look," Bond said, and padded over to the cart.  He winced when he bent down to pick up the med kit.

            Q watched him, amused at Bond’s awkward, tired movements.  He got up and offered his help only after Bond had spilled the contents from the kit onto the bed, when he pulled at the latch too hard.

            “How did you know where I was?" Bond asked, as Q knelt beside him and dabbed rubbing alcohol around the small bullet hole.

            "I know everything."

            "You are aware that even as injured and exhausted as I am, I could still hurt you," Bond said with a wry smile.  He flinched when Q pressed the solution-soaked cotton pad into the wound.

            “Yes, yes, I am aware of your Double-0 prowess,” Q said, discarding the bloody cotton into a paper cup and wetting another pad.  “M sent me.” 

            “That doesn’t answer my question.”

            “I was at a conference at _The Plaza_ ,” Q said, his eyes focused fixedly on the wound in the same way his attention was usually locked onto his new projects.  “People like me...talking to each other from different agencies, sharing ideas and project theories, exchanging stories about ungrateful agents who discard months-long in development, prototype projects like used tissue.”

            “A secret squirrel gathering?” Bond asked. 

            “If in your pedestrian mind, that’s what it is,” Q said.  “Turn around please.  Let me look at the exit wound.”

            Bond shifted where he sat on the bed until his back was turned.  Q let out an inquisitive sound but didn’t elaborate on what he saw.  He rummaged through the kit and pulled up a fresh stack of cotton pads.

            “Your handler transmitted your distress signal and location to M, who passed it on to me as I was the closest affiliate for a simple extraction.  Nothing so terribly complicated that it would require me to have Double-0 training.”

            “You did a fine job of giving me the key to the car,” Bond said.

            “I did, didn’t I?” Q agreed. 

            Then there was a long bout of silence as Q cleaned the exit wound, this hole slightly larger than the entry.  The rain and the wind had picked up outside – it sounded like pebbles being thrown against the large glass pane, in between howls of strong wind.  The weather was in profound contrast to the delicate fingers touching his shoulder.

            “Almost done,” Q said finally.  “You should get this looked at by the staff physician at the British Embassy,” a look at the digital clock on the nightstand told him it was quarter past midnight, “...sometime today.  I’ll place a call when I return the ambassador’s car.  I suppose you should check in with M on the mission's status, although I think they may just send another agent to complete the assignment since you’ve been made.”

            He placed a thick piece of gauze against the wound and taped it down. “If the pain is severe enough to require medication, I can –“

            “I’ll be all right, Q,” Bond said.

            “I forgot that you’ve been trained to take a severe beating and still show up at your next assignment hours later with a smile on your face,” Q said.  “Turn back around.”

            Bond did as he was asked.  Q was still absorbed in his task, his face serious in spite of the sarcasm he'd spat out.

            “Thank you,” Bond simply said.

            Q nodded, his face softening and his mouth turning up a little. The mass of thick hair that framed his face made him look even younger than he normally appeared amongst the men decades older than he at the Bureau.  It was the first time Bond had become fascinated by the Quartermaster he had known for almost two years but knew nothing about. 

            Before either could say another word, a gentle knock at the door startled both of them out of the moment.  Bond automatically looked for his gun -- although it was out of bullets, the visitor couldn’t know that.  Q glanced at the clock again and cursed under his breath.

            “Don’t be alarmed,” Q said. “It’s someone I know...and forgot about while begging Ambassador Smithfield to lend me a car, and trying to locate you through a rather challenging set of directions given to me by your handler.”

            He got up and went to the door, taking care to put the gun into a drawer first.  Bond watched him in a gold framed mirror hung at eye level, just a few feet from the door, as Q undid the latch and unlocked it. 

            A man at least ten years older, a foot taller, and perhaps twenty pounds heavier than Bond himself, smiled as Q opened the door.  He had an expensive haircut to go with his expensive dark blue suit, and an expensive cashmere coat draped over one arm.  Q replied with an apology.

            “I’m really sorry,” Q said, placing a hand on the man’s chest just as he was about to take a step into the room.  “I had a brewing headache and I thought it would be gone before our dinner.  I fell asleep instead.”

            “There are plenty of places still open,” the man replied in an Australian accent.  “It _is_ New York.”

            “Rain check?” Q asked, giving the man a quick kiss on the cheek.  “I promise I'll be better company later.  How about lunch?  I’ll buy, of course.”

            The man tried hard not to look put off, his smile remaining.  He finally sighed. “Lunch,” he said, lacing an arm around Q’s waist,  “and dinner...” Another kiss followed, but this one was on Q’s mouth and it lingered longer than a mere friendly gesture.  “...and dessert.”

            Q cupped the man’s face in both hands, his thumbs stroking his cheeks.  “Thank you for understanding.  Good night, Paul.”

            The moment hung on a little longer, then the man left.  Bond felt a little intrusive watching the exchange, sitting through the entire intimate moment. 

            Q returned to the bedside and picked up the unwrapped gauze pad again. “Apologies for the interruption,” he said.  “Let’s get you patched up so you can get some food and rest.”

            “A missed dinner date?”

            “Yes.”

            “Another... _squirrel_?”

            “Actually, he's one of the staff translators at the UN,” Q said, pressing a gauze pad against the entry wound and taping it in place.  “He was the translator for three keynote speakers at our...squirrel meeting.” He unraveled a roll of gauze and carefully laced it under Bond's arm and around to the side, covering the padded wounds.

            “You two seem...close...for only knowing each other for a few days,” Bond said, a slight grin appearing.

            “Hardly,” Q said.  “We met yesterday and had a cup of coffee.” He looked over Bond’s shoulder, noticing the mirror.  “So you saw,” he said, and laughed softly.  “Now you'll think I'm easy?”

            “Not at all.  I think you could do better.”

            “I'm not any more serious about Paul than you are about your usual conquests, Mr. Bond, except that I don't want to obtain secrets from him.  I'm merely acting on a pure physical and arbitrary impulse while I am far from home.”

            “I still think you could do better.”

            “Thank you,” Q said, the smile on his face broadening.  “It’s very flattering, coming from you.”

            After applying two rolls of the gauze, Q taped the corners and leaned back.  He nodded to himself approvingly at the completed task. “All done,” he said proudly.  “Can you believe that I’ve never been to medical school?”

            Bond flexed his shoulder and folded up his arm.  “Could've fooled me.”

            Q stood, collected the contents of the kit and put it all back into the box.  Bond watched his profile, many thoughts going through his head, but nothing much that made sense.  He did understand he'd felt twinges of annoyance when Q displayed affection to the Australian; what he couldn’t understand was why. 

            “Have you eaten?” Bond asked, shaking his head – as if he could disperse the confused thoughts that muddled his mind. 

            “I'm fine,” Q said, gathering bloodied cotton pads, gauze wrappers and cloth tape into a neat pile in his hand and taking them into the bathroom. 

            Bond heard the water run for a full minute, then Q re-emerged, wiping his hands on a hand towel. 

            “How much longer will you be here?” Bond asked.

            “The conference? Another three days.  I will be on leave for two weeks afterwards.  I was promised a personal tour of New York and Toronto.”

            Bond had to refrain from asking snidely if Paul had volunteered to be his guide.  However, he wasn’t asking about Q’s conference dates.

            It was with some reluctance that he made himself scoot off the bed and get back on his feet.  He shuffled a few steps to the service cart and looked under the silver dome that covered his late dinner.  He frowned at the sight of ham and Swiss cheese between two slices of wheat bread.  It was centered nicely on a large white plate with a fancy white trim.  A halved spear of pickle leaned against one side of the sandwich.  Small jars of ketchup and mustard sat next to the plate. 

            “The kitchen was long closed,” Q said, walking up and looking down at the sandwich.  “I figured you’d already given them plenty of trouble with the interior of the Porsche and the lobby they had to mop up.  I just told them to put anything together.” He draped the hand towel over one end of the cart.

            “I don’t eat...this kind of thing.”

            “No Scotch, either,” Q continued. “That is the last thing you need right now.”

            Then there was silence, as the two stared down at the sandwich on the fancy plate.

            “I’ve never been so conflicted in my life,” Bond said, scratching at the day’s stubble on his chin.  “I’m famished, but I really don’t want the food.”

            “We can’t always have lobsters and caviar at your beck and call,” Q said.

            “Would you stay here with me,” Bond asked, pulling his attention away from the plate and looking at Q.  “Tonight?”

            Q  tilted his head slightly, puzzled.  “Are you feeling ill?”

            Bond felt tongue-tied, although he'd never had this problem before.  He felt foolish, feeling as he did.  He'd always known what to say, how to act – by instinct.  He wasn’t certain if being shot and the nagging pain had made him feel out of sorts and confused, or....

            Without thought, he leaned in and gave Q a feather-like kiss on the mouth.  Q stood fast, unmoving – his eyes large with surprise.  Bond followed it with another, his mouth pressing harder on Q’s, as he swept his tongue into the slight opening between his parted lips.  The tip of his tongue touched Q’s, but he didn't respond.  Instead, he took a step backward and away.

            “Sorry....” It was the first and only word that he could summon to say, although he wasn’t quite certain why he apologized. 

            “Why did you –“

            Cluttered thoughts and words threatened to spill out in an incoherent flood.  Bond closed his lips tightly on them, as if he could physically choke off anything that might be spoken and could never be taken back. 

            The silence made Q angry. “Do you see me as one of your casual conquests?” he asked.  “You're hurt and feeling a little lonely – you simply want _anyone_ available to warm your bed?”

            “No...,” Bond started, but he couldn’t continue. 

            “I'm your peer, not a convenience,” Q said.  He strode across the room to the closet where he tore his coat off the hanger. “I won't report you."  He slipped on his still-damp coat.  “But never let this happen again.”

            “Q – “ Bond said.  “That isn’t what I meant.”

            “Then what _did_ you mean?”

            When silence answered him again, Q raked his fingers through his tousled hair and took a breath, letting it out slowly.  He was calmer when he spoke again. “I will ask your handler to arrange your return flight tomorrow.  You can stay here until then.”

            “Where are you going?”

            “Paul has a flat in Murray Hill.  That is all you need to know,” Q said quietly.  “I'll see you at work, eventually.  Good night, Double-0 Seven.”

            With those words, Q gave Bond a nod and left.  Bond was still staring at the closed door, long after he had gone.  He was hoping Q might come back through the door again, though he knew he wouldn't.  In that moment, the pain in his chest hurt more than the wound in his shoulder.


	2. Chapter 2

                He felt a little ridiculous, sitting in the lobby of _The Plaza_ with a paper cup of coffee in his hands.  He had been waiting for nearly an hour, the coffee had cooled to a lukewarm but he still held on to it as he watched the corridor that led down the Terrace Room.  The description of the meeting that took place there was subtle.  It said a lot but nothing in its title. 

                _Intercontinental Strategy and Technology Summit_

                The hotel couldn’t tell him very much except that the conference started at eight with a breakfast at a smaller ballroom before the meeting convened in the Terrace Room at nine-thirty.  The organizers were reluctant to tell him anything more and he didn’t feel like explaining who he was.  Instead, he bought a cup of coffee from the Plaza Food Hall and sat in an arm chair with it since ten.  No one really bothered him, although a shift manager and a security guard had come by to ask him if he needed help.

                It was almost eleven when a stream of people in suits spilled out of the Room, chatter following them as they came out to the lobby.  Some went toward the toilets while most made their way toward the Food Hall.  Bond stood, stretching his legs that had become a little cramped.  He took slow steps against the wave of almost a hundred men and women, he estimated.  Then he saw him. 

                Q was walking between two men who were easily decades older.  He was animated as he listened to the two speaking to him in voices that was too loud, but not clear enough for Bond to hear what they were saying.  Q froze in his step when he caught the sight of Bond – it was such an anomaly that he was speechless for a moment. 

                “Excuse me,” Q finally said to his company.  “Please continue the story for me later.”

                The two only gave Bond an inquisitive look as they walked past him.  Q looked behind him first, then walked up to Bond.  His smile wasn’t as brilliant as it was when he was deep in a conversation with his companions but traces of it still remained. 

                Bond held out the cup to him.  “Peace offering,” he said.  “I didn’t think it was appropriate to give you flowers or jewelry.”

                Q’s smile grew and he laughed as he took to the cup.  “Is this in the Double-O handbook? How to make your apologies?”

                Q took a sip from the cup and although the drink was no longer hot and was bitter by then, he still said his thanks.

                “Usually the morning after shag solves any problems made from the night before.”

                “Double-Os does have a gift for tact,” Q said.  “You don’t need to apologize.  I should have been more understanding of your presence of mind then.“

                Bond shook his head.  “As I ate the dreadful sandwich, wallowing in self pity as I did so, I also realized that you may be right.  I was trying to take advantage of the company I had because I was hurt while knowing I had failed what should have been a very simple task.  I wanted to be distracted from the thumping pains of my bruised ego.”

                “Perhaps I should have ordered you the Scotch after all.”

                Bond smiled.  “Maybe,” he said.  “I know you made plans with Paul for dinner…and dessert, please consider having dinner with me instead so I can apologize and thank you properly.”

                Q looked intrigued. 

                “Weren’t you suppose to get your shoulder looked at and then board the first flight back to London?”

                “I've already missed the flight,” Bond said cheerfully.  “It left two hours ago.”

                “It’s not like you to disobey orders for something as arbitrary as an apology dinner,” Q said.  “This isn’t a criticism on the effort you are making now but, asides from a few occasions when you come to the lab to pick up your equipment, and then the other occasions when I became exasperated with you with reporting damaged or lost equipment, we really aren’t friends.  So there’s no need for you to be so troubled with the … now I think about it, a rather silly quibble.  I’m sorry as well.  I shouldn’t have stormed out in the rain like an embarrassed teenage girl over nothing.”

                “It makes me uncomfortable when other people apologize for the wrong I visited onto them.”

                The remark made Q laugh, and in turn, broadened Bond’s smile. 

                “To think I’d made a Double-O uncomfortable,” he said.  “You didn’t even flinch when I shouted at you time and time again for the broken equipment.”

                “That is different,” Bond said.  “And so, dinner? I still have the Porsche.  We don’t have to stay in the City.”

                “Mr. Bond – “

                “Paul will see you at lunch.  And he will be escorting you around New York and Toronto,” Bond said.  “What’s one more missed dinner with him?”

                Q let out a sigh but Bond was optimistic – the nearly defeated look was on Q’s face.

                “You wouldn’t want to have an injured man eat alone,” Bond said, pushing forward just a little more.  “Your colleague…who promises to take much, much more care of the issued equipment from now on.”

                “So you weren’t even trying before,” Q said.  “Very well.  Two things – you are to return the Porsche today and while you are at the Embassy, have your shoulder looked at.”

                “Wonderful,” Bond said.  “I will meet you in our room in _Surrey_ after your conference today.”

                Q caught the word ‘our’ but only nodded.  He watched Bond leave, his injured shoulder was lower than the other, but his walk was full of confidence. 

                He didn’t understand Bond’s intentions completely but was mildly amused when he sensed acrimony coming from Bond when he said Paul’s name.  Perhaps he imagined it.  Nevertheless, it was interesting to provoke something … _anything_ , out of a man whom he didn’t see often and when he did, seemed to be devoid of any kind of emotion.  He had seen Bond pushed to the brink of complete breakdown post missions and perhaps that was why his flashes of anger upon seeing his beloved creations returned to him broken or worse, gone – didn’t resonate in Bond when he scolded him.

                Being an ocean’s away from home made him bolder and curious.  Q took another sip of the coffee that wasn’t very good but continued to drink it because it had been a gift.  A look at his watch told him he had five more minutes to his break.  Some conference members were already returning to the meeting room.  After he made a quick call to the Embassy for them to expect Bond and the borrowed car on his issued phone, he returned to the Terrace Room.


	3. Chapter 3

               

                Although he had the card key to the room, he knocked anyway.  Bond opened it and leaned against the door.

                “Lose your key to your own room?”

                Bond had changed out of his suit and into a blue sweater and a pair of dark slacks.  He was smiling so brilliantly that Q couldn’t help but pull up a smile himself.

                “This isn’t my room.  You didn’t notice I didn’t have my luggage here?” Q answered, stepping inside when Bond widened the door for him to come through.  “If it hadn’t occurred to you by now, my name can’t be Benjamin Franklin Pierce.”

                “You could have parents who were enamored with American television.”

                Q saw the small writing desk had been cleared and moved next to the window.  A bottle of wine was chilling in a silver ice bucket on the window ledge with two glasses next to it on a folded white linen.

                “I do not,” Q said.  “Ambassador Smithfield’s secretary made the arrangements while I was chasing you in the rain, maybe she is a fan of war comedies.”

                “I didn’t expect you for another thirty minutes,” Bond said, closing the door.  “I can have them start the dinner now.”

                Q was still looking at the cryptic arrangement across the room.  “So, dinner.  Here?”

                “It’s a perfectly nice room,” Bond said as he walked to the nightstand by the bed.  “The view isn’t … too terrible.  The pictures in the hotel menu looks…nice.”

                Q shrugged off his overcoat as he said to himself, “Why no, Paul, I would not like to go to the _Russian Tea Room_.  I will spend tonight having sandwiches with a colleague in a hotel room.”

                “Did you say something?” Bond smiled up at Q as he dialed the hotel kitchen number on the bedside phone.

                Q shook his head and hung up his coat.  He took off his suit jacket beneath that and hung it up.  He hadn’t a chance to change before he came from _The Plaza_ ; having been detained longer than usual by the after conference crowd that liked to swap ‘war stories’.  It wasn’t that he didn’t like the fellow tech members.  It was more on his age and his early entry into the Securities field.  There weren’t very much stories he can tell nor had he been in the business long enough to sympathize with others like him.  He felt his age distinctly.  Dinner dates were his perfect excuse to worm his way out the nightly social events.

                Q toed off his shoes and left them in the closet, beneath where his coats hung and walked to the make-shift dinner table.  The sun had gone down hours ago, the night pulled up the beautiful New York night lights – accentuated by the moving river of red and gold headlights in the streets below.  The rain had let up for most of the day, calming to a drizzle.

                “Forty minutes,” Bond said, pulling the wine bottle from the bucket and opening it with a practiced ease.  “You can go to _Russian Tea Room_ any time.  Room 932 is one night only.”

                Q laughed and took a seat at the table.  “I must say, I am supremely curious… is this how you do it?”

                “Do what?” Bond said as he poured the white wine into the two glasses.  2012 Duckhorn, Sauvignon Blanc.  He preferred French wines but the hotel only stocked California wines. 

                “Working me now the way you would work a …. mission detail?” Q said.  “Don’t take offense.  I find this fascinating.”

                Bond handed one glass to Q and tapped the corner of it and drank.

                “I can be considerate without a need to want something.”

                “That’s not what I mean,” Q said and took a sip of the wine.  “When MI6 recruited me, I’ve thought they’d place me in-field.  One of the recruiters told me I’d be kidnapped, ransomed, disavowed by MI6 – all on my first day.  I’ve always been curious about what I might have missed out if I was a better fit for field work.”

                Bond laughed.  “I’ve met agents smaller than you and they are more vicious than me.”

                “I’m sure,” Q said.  “I suppose I don’t have enough violent nature in me the agency can exploit and train.”

                “The answer is no,” Bond said.  “I am not working you the way I would work a mission detail.  I really am sorry for taking liberty with you earlier.  Sometimes, I think of my own needs first and assumed I can have whatever I wished to take.”

                “You’ve never been rejected?”

                Bond only smiled and drank the wine. 

                “It must be nice to feel so confident all the time,” Q said.  “Almost like an instinct.”

                “If it were that, I would be entertaining expensive women right now,” Bond said.  “It’s a veneer.  It’s believing in the lies I tell while knowing they are lies.  Even pathological liars believe in what they say completely.  Lies I tell are pretty.”

                Q interest was unwavering.  He had forgotten the wine glass that was in his hand.  “It’s a mean of survival as part of your work.”

                 “Of course it is, but being someone else for so long, you forget who you really are.  Those lies becomes the only identity you have,” Bond said.  He placed his wine glass on the table and cupped his hands together.  “How long have you been with MI6?”

                “Three years and a few months.”

                “And the only mask you had to wear perhaps were when you are with your neighbors and a few friends whom you don’t know very well?”

                Q titled his head on the side.  “Some.  I don’t make a lot of friends.  I think it’s simply my nature not to want to be around many people.  I prefer to be with very few whom I trust implicitly.”

                “Like Paul.”

                Q laughed.  “No, not like Paul.  He’s a weeks-long one night stand.  I don’t have the luxury of being frivolous very often.  He’s a good man who lavish attention on me and I like being spoiled.  However, for me to truly enjoy being spoiled – I can’t have it all the time.”

                “Whereas, I have it too much and the feeling becomes familiar and trivial.”

                “I don’t think it is that,” Q said, contemplating.  “Perhaps you allowed it to be familiar and trivial to be unattached to the complicated things that comes with intimacy.”

                “Do you think you would feel complicated when you board the plane back to London in two weeks?”

                “I don’t think so,” Q said.  “I like Paul.  I don’t love him.  I think he understood this too.”

                “You _hope_ he understands,” Bond said.  “Or I might have to take care of him for you, if he should be too…obsessed.”

                “I will definitely ask you to take care of him for me if it came to that,” Q said with a laugh.

                There was a shared moment of silence first, before Bond’s expression softened.

                “Even though I was driven by a moment of self-loathing when I kissed you,” Bond started.  “It wasn’t completely wrong.”

                “What do you mean?”

                Bond took the wine glass out of Q’s hand and placed it on the table.  He stood and held out one hand to Q.  For a long moment, Q only looked at the outstretched palm.  More out of curiosity, Q placed his hand in Bond’s.

                “I was lonely,” Bond said, closing his fingers around Q’s hand gently.  “But not the kind you can solve with a physical act, do you understand?”

                Bond sounded so vulnerable and unlike himself that Q couldn’t help but theorize in his mind that it must be Bond’s art of seduction number six-hundred and fifty-eight.  He almost laughed at his own absurd thoughts, then Bond pulled him up from the chair.  Almost immediately, he was pulled into Bond’s arms.  For a few stunned moments, Q stood frozen.

                “Perhaps it is different for you now,” Bond said, his voice close to Q’s ear.  “That no one knows who you are.  No one cares.  They have a world of expectation from you and that’s the only thing that mattered.”

                He felt Bond’s arms wound around him and soon, Bond was swaying the both of them in the music that he can only hear in his head.  It was with reluctance that Q finally allowed himself to relax, bring up his arms and lay the side of his face against Bond’s shoulder.

                “You and I have our names taken from us,” Bond continued.  “Everything in our present life we live in are lies.  Do you think we will ever be ourselves again when they give our names back to us one day?”

                “I don’t know,” Q finally said.  “I only know what we do, are bigger than our real selves.”

                Bond leaned back and held Q’s face in his hands.  “Tonight, let me be a frivolous one-night stand you met in Room 932,” he said and leaned in for a kiss.  It was so gentle that their lips only glanced over one another.  “My name is…”

                Bond spoke a name into Q’s mouth and followed it with a kiss.  Q returned it.  He didn’t know why except that he realized then, he was just like Bond but he was too inexperienced in his career to understand what it was yet.  The slightest taste of Bond, with the hint of wine – was almost like meeting another lost soul for the first time.

                “Is that your real name?” Q said when he leaned back from the kiss.

                Bond gave him a slight nod.  “Terrible, isn’t it – it no longer sound like my own.”

                Q repeated it.  “Your name sounds like you should’ve been a banker.”

                Bond only laughed and gave Q another kiss.  A harder, deeper one. 

                “We don’t have to do anything,” Bond said.  “I would just like to be who I was supposed to be tonight, with someone who understand why.”

                “You won’t ask me for my name?” Q asked, this time – he initiated the kiss. 

                “You will give it to me when you are ready to,” Bond said and brushed locks of hair from Q’s forehead.  He planted a lingering kiss there.  “Right now, I want to be _him_ for a few hours.  I just care about you being here with me now.”

                Q wordlessly leaned into Bond’s embrace again.  They continued their slow dance but this time, Q thought he could hear the soft tempo of the music too.

 


End file.
